


wolf & songbird

by smolpot8o



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Bathing, Cat-eyed fangy 7ft extra monstery Geralt, Cuddling, Drunken Kissing, Established Relationship, Fae Jaskier | Dandelion, Fluff, Homoerotic Hand to Hand Combat Training, Hurt/Comfort, Hypothermia, M/M, Mutual Pining
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-16
Updated: 2020-05-15
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:55:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23689555
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smolpot8o/pseuds/smolpot8o
Summary: “Do I not warm you when it’s cold?” asks Geralt. “Feed you when you’re hungry, carry you when you’ve had too much too drink?”“Well,” says Jaskier. He gulps. “But you neversaidanything.”They may be destined to meet in every universe, but they always stay together by choice.(Or: a series of one-shots, canon and AU, from prompts on mytumblr.)
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 32
Kudos: 403
Collections: Good Relationship Etiquette (familial included) - or Good BDSM Etiquette - or Good Relationship and BDSM Etiquette





	1. oh, fun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _You wouldn’t ask an ordinary person whether or not they have a soul, let alone a witcher. But he’s so curious. If they do have marks and lose them, what happens to the person who would’ve been their soulmate?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From Geraskier Week, [this](https://lilacsdandelionsandonions.tumblr.com/post/190846681185/oh-fun) is my humble offering as someone who doesn't read much of this genre, for Prompt Day 1: Soulmates.
> 
> (Or, like I tagged it on my tumblr, _yeets and flees._ )

It’s said that witchers don’t have souls. So, of course they can’t have soulmates.

The bard’s heard a couple different tales. Some say they start off with souls, and nascent marks to go along with them, only to lose them in the Trials. Others say they never had either in the first place, and sometimes, that’s why they were unwanted, given up by their families to almost certain death, or a fate that’s perhaps worse.

Jaskier has always wanted to ask a witcher. Except that he’s never met one, and, of course, you wouldn’t ask an ordinary person whether or not they have a soul, let alone a _witcher_. So that’s going to be tricky. But he’s so curious. If they do have marks and lose them, what happens to the person who would’ve been their soulmate?

Ever since his own mark came in on his wrist, not long after his thirteenth birthday－finally legible after years of being blotchy and shapeless－he’s known that he would meet his soulmate in a tavern. Where else would those words make sense?

It’s part of why he became a bard in the first place. And it explains… a lot about how he turned out, in general. When you talk to people who are drinking alone, one thing tends to lead to another.

But he’s never heard those five sweet words. And that’s _fine_. In the meantime, he’s had a lot of fun. There’s no rush. He’s only eighteen.

And yet, you couldn’t just chance missing your soulmate. So every time he sees someone drinking alone, he can’t help it.

Even when he’s busy shoving bread down his pants. It’s not a bad first angle to look up and lay his eyes on the most breathtaking man he’s ever seen. And he’s seen, and bedded, a lot of people in his travels. There’s no comparison. Long white hair? Massive shoulders? A jawline sharp enough to end him?

It’s probably a long shot. And yet.

Up close, he’s even more beautiful. He might look pissed, but what lovely… _golden_ eyes?

“I love the way you just… sit in the corner and brood.”

He probably could’ve done better. But having a line ready tends to turn people off, it’s so obvious, practically crass. Usually, he can simply rely on his poetic talent to carry him through, but…

Well, if those words are what the man’s soulmark says, that’s his problem. But probably not, judging from the hostile passivity of his features, aside from a near eye-roll.

But then he speaks. “I’m here to drink alone.”

Those are the words on Jaskier’s soulmark. Oh, _gods_. This is it. He said the words! This man, of all people…his _soulmate_ …he’d always known they’d have to be a looker, but sweet Melitele…

All in all, he keeps his calm. “Good, yeah, good.”

Why doesn’t the man seem at all affected?

Jaskier carries on with the conversation he’d planned anyway, not expecting the words. He doesn’t anticipate the review, three words or less, to center on monsters, of all things.

“Oh, fun!”

His soulmate… is a witcher? He’s not too surprised that the tales weren’t true, after all. So few of them ever actually are.

But then the witcher gets up and walks away in the middle of their talk, and he doubts. What if… he got a mark… and the witcher didn’t?

Well, there’s only one way to find out.

* * *

Geralt asked the elves to let him go. That’s a good sign. And after they were freed, the witcher could’ve ridden off at full speed and left him in the dust, but he didn’t. He also could’ve hurried closing the job with the farmer who’d hired him, in the tavern, and disappeared before Jaskier could come back downstairs from the room he’d rented. But there’d been no need for him to dash so madly up and down the stairs to grab his pack, terrified that the witcher would be gone by the time he’d returned. He’d lingered long enough for the bard to follow him, onto their next adventure.

But he’s still not allowed on Roach. And he has to practically beg for a helping of the game that Geralt cooks nightly, because he ran out of jerky and dried fruit for the road last week, and the elves had taken his pants bread. And only one out of every five questions he asks gets answered, sometimes only in monosyllables.

It’s _fine_. Soulmates don’t always get along at first. He’s sung plenty of songs on the subject. It’s practically a genre.

By now, they’ve been traveling for about a week, and while there’s been considerably less lovemaking than he’d expected to happen after meeting his soulmate－well, actually, none－not even a kiss－even a brush of hands, or just a kind word－

Oh, shit. It’s hopeless, isn’t it? Maybe witchers don’t have souls after all. His soulmate doesn’t have a soul. Oh, _fuck_. What is he going to do?

Well, at least if the soulmate thing is a wash, he’s found a wonderful muse.

They’re finally taking the time to stop by a river to wash up. Geralt is not shy about taking off his shirt, leaving Jaskier to gape on the riverbank with his doublet hanging off of one arm. It’s too much to take in all at once. His chest is as wide as the Continent, and those arms could probably lift it.

Then his pants are down, and _oh_ , sweet Melitele, if they ever do finally get around to it, _yes_ but also _oh no_ －

It’s not that he didn’t notice the scars. But his heart tried to shove that realization down, letting his eyes have some fun first.

And then he turns around, and－oh, gods, that _ass_ －

“Hurry up,” says Geralt. He’s wading into the water, wasting no time scrubbing his sweat-stiff, bloodstained clothes. “Our clothes need time to dry.”

And that’s another opportunity for the witcher to abandon him, leave him napping naked in the sun with his clothes hanging on a nearby tree branch…

Jaskier’s never been so shy about undressing in front of anyone. He’s done it so often, and with plenty to take pride in. But he didn’t expect for his soulmate to not even _look_.

With his clothes bunched in his arms, soulmark hidden with a customary ribbon, and the sun warm on his bare skin, he follows the witcher into the cool water.

Now that they’re closer, he can’t ignore the scars any longer. For once, he doesn’t ask－all that white, raised flesh speaks for itself. And the witcher’s shoulders go tense, like he can feel those eyes on him, knows exactly where they’re tracing.

But one scar is different. There, on his chest, just over his heart, are dark blemishes that might not be scars. They look more like slightly worse for wear beginnings of soulmarks, before they form words, somewhere between freckles and inkstains. But they’re not supposed to look like that on adults, words never formed. Maybe the Trials really did ruin them.

Yet… he does have a soul, after all.

As he stares closer, those marks begin to look a little less random. Sort of like staring at clouds, images seeming to take shape. One splotch has points, like a star. Another could almost be the wing of a bird?

But only one mark makes his heart stutter. It looks like a buttercup.

Well… that’s not how soulmarks are supposed to work. They’re supposed to be words, not pictures. Maybe he’s making something out of nothing, desperately clinging onto any sign that he can even when there isn’t one. It could be that the witcher’s opportunity for love has been destroyed.

And yet… if there’s a chance…

“Are those soulmarks?”

Geralt growls. “How should I know?”

Jaskier nearly rolls his eyes. This isn’t going to be easy.

But it might make for a good story.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!


	2. go easy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt tries to teach Jaskier some basics in hand-to-hand combat. Jaskier cheats.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, people are reading this!? I knew there was a reason to archive them away from the blue hellsite! Thank you for all your lovely comments! <3
> 
> This is another Geraskier Week [fill](https://lilacsdandelionsandonions.tumblr.com/post/190967387530/go-easy), Day #3: Protection.

Another week, another fucking tavern brawl. Well, not a full on brawl. Geralt knocks out the lout spitting insults at him _before_ Jaskier can start swinging this time. Then he grabs the bard by the shirt, dragging him along for a hasty exit, leaving their barely touched beer.

“Could you teach me how to do that?” asks Jaskier.

Probably not. But he can make sure the bard doesn’t get himself any more bloody and bruised on his behalf, in the future.

So at the next town, after they’ve settled into an inn, the witcher holds off on making the rounds inquiring after a job. First, they make for the yard out back of the inn, next to the stable.

Roach will be getting a show.

“You might want to take off your doublet,” says Geralt.

Jaskier does as he says, folding his doublet and laying it carefully over the fence. “Are you _planning_ on knocking me into the dirt?”

“Would you rather be pretty and useless?”

He nearly bites his tongue, but it’s too late, he can’t take back that word he didn’t mean to let slip.

Jaskier seems more offended than flattered. “Can’t I be pretty _and_ deadly? You certainly make it look easy. Although, I think you wear dirt a little better than me.”

“Hmm.”

“Where to begin?” asks Jaskier. He puts his fists up and bounces a little, which is far more silly than intimidating.

The witcher waves his fingers. “Come here.”

He can see in Jaskier’s eyes that he remembers the last time he said that, when they first met. And he’d brought it up on purpose. It would help them along to get a little riled up.

Jaskier approaches warily, heartbeat fluttering, like he remembers the punch. But he doesn’t seem to realize what he’s meant to do. “What?”

Geralt growls. “Hit me.”

“I don’t want to hurt you, Geralt.”

“You won’t.”

He gives in to a slight smirk. That works.

“Oh, you think I can’t?” asks Jaskier.

Geralt tilts his head doubtfully.

Jaskier is riled up enough to swing. Rather, jab, short and quick, rather than a throwing his fist wide. Good form. It might’ve caught a human man right in the nose. But he’s too slow for a witcher, who simply reaches out and grabs for that incoming wrist.

Jaskier gasps, heart stuttering, as he’s spun around. Geralt grabs him from behind, one hand bending his arm, and the other finding a hold on his neck.

“Right, I get it, you’re _so_ big and strong,” says Jaskier. “We’re all impressed.”

He’s breathing hard, heart still racing, but there’s no scent of fear. Just excitement, earthy-sweet, and a little of that now familiar musk of arousal.

But that’s the witcher’s own fault. He didn’t need to bring their bodies flush together like this. His nose is nearly brushing Jaskier’s ear, breathing dandelion perfume.

Jaskier’s voice hitches with a hint of a laugh. “Unhand me, you brute!”

Geralt lets him go. Jaskier rubs his wrist, although he’s probably being dramatic. He’d been careful not to bruise.

“Again,” says Geralt.

Jaskier circles him a bit, looking for an in. He’s not going to find one. Geralt is just assessing how much the bard already knows, what needs correcting, and what basics might need to be covered.

This time, Jaskier tries going in for a kick. Easier not to get grabbed that way. But Geralt just sidesteps him and sticks his foot out in a way that would’ve tripped him, had he not immediately caught the bard by the back of the shirt afterwards and yanked him straight up again.

Jaskier gapes at him with wide eyes once he’s been set on his feet.

“Fuck,” says Jaskier, and like he’d said himself earlier, clearly impressed.

Geralt nearly smiles. “Careful, little bard.”

“I’m nearly your height!”

Geralt gives him an unnecessary push to the chest, knocking him slightly back, trying to push his buttons.

“Again!”

Jaskier just rushes him, letting his shoulder crash into his chest, trying to knock him off balance. But Geralt plants his feet, lets his greater weight keep him steady. And he locks an arm easily around the bard’s neck, again, trapping him with his head under his arm, like they’re squabbling children.

“Geralt,” whines Jaskier.

“Do you want me to go easy on you?”

Jaskier struggles against him. It’s cute.

“Fuck you!”

He wishes.

Geralt lets him go. Jaskier pushes away, his mouth struggling between a grimace and what might be a grin.

“Had enough?” asks Geralt.

“You haven’t even taught me anything yet! You’re just bullying me!”

Geralt gives in to a little chuckle. “You know more than I’d given you credit for.”

Jaskier smiles at that.

“Which wasn’t much.“

He dodges the petulant swipe of a foot easily, not trying to trip the bard this time. 

Once again, he grabs for Jaskier’s wrist, both of them. Maybe he is enjoying this a little too much, feeling the younger man struggle against him, those blue eyes wide and alight, his skin flushed with the exertion, his curly bangs sticking a little to his glistening forehead.

“Geralt!”

He’s not used to having laughter curl around his name. It’s contagious, his mouth twitching up.

Their faces are close. It almost doesn’t startle him, the way Jaskier leans in. Fucking finally.

But those warm lips only graze the tip of his nose. In his surprise, he lets his go. The ruse worked.

Jaskier laughs. “You should’ve seen your face!”

Geralt just growls at him, but not for the reason the bard seems to think.

“Oh, don’t be mad,” says Jaskier. “I didn’t mean anything by it!”

That’s the _problem_.

Roach snorts at them.

“Enough practice,” says Geralt.

He didn’t expect for the bard to win this round.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! <3


	3. real

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Geralt almost forgets that his companion isn’t human, most of the time._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, thank you all so much for the kind comments!
> 
> Inspired by [this](https://lilacsdandelionsandonions.tumblr.com/post/611830657265614848/hey-i-love-your-blog-and-everything-you-do-and) prompt.

Geralt smells fae as soon as he enters the tavern. That’s strange, because usually, the fae don’t smell like _themselves_. They usually take on whatever scent the beholder likes best. For the witcher, that’s the perfume his mother used to wear, lilac and gooseberries. Usually, witchers are immune to magic, but the few times he’s ever crossed paths with a fae, scent tends to be his weakness.

But this fae doesn’t smell of lilacs and gooseberries. He smells mostly human, with a hint of earth and clove, under the dandelion perfume. Then his scent turns bitter with frustration.

It’s the bard, getting pelted with bread. He certainly looks fae, with his delicate, fine-boned features, blue eyes just a shade too bright. Either he’s wearing a strong glamour, too good for the witcher to see through, or there’s some other spell at work hiding the usual pointed ears and sprouting horns.

There has to be some other magic at work, maybe a curse, because normally, an audience of humans would be ensorcelled by fae music, not repelled.

And when he approaches Geralt, not only does he not bother asking for his name, but the fae bard doesn’t even recognize him as a witcher. Maybe there’s simply fools across all species.

Then the bard gestures with his hands as he speaks. One of those rings is silver-plated, but it smells of iron. That must be why he doesn’t smell like lilac and gooseberries, why the crowd is able to resist his charm.

Iron suppresses fae magic. It even hurts them, hence the silver. Why would he do that to himself?

Geralt lets the strangely human bard tag along, because fool or not, it’s wise not to anger a fae.

* * *

Geralt almost forgets that his companion isn’t human, most of the time. Jaskier eats, drinks too much, complains of sore feet, snores a little sometimes when he sleeps. When it’s cold, he presses up against the witcher in the night for warmth, even when he could probably just take off his ring and make heat with a snap of his fingers. Even when there’s imminent danger, the ring stays on, the bard never transforming for the sake of a quick escape, standing his ground as a human would.

So Geralt doesn’t ask. He’s not human, either. It’s none of his business. And maybe he doesn’t mind Jaskier drawing into his chest on cold nights.

Besides, he’s never seen Jaskier steal a name, or a firstborn. Though he does steal his fair share of hearts, and spouses. That’s probably not magic, though, even if his blue eyes are a shade too bright, his voice as lulling as wine.

Geralt just drinks whenever the bard slips away with yet another shapely barmaid or burly stablehand, stretching out in the tavern bed afterwards, as if he’s happy to have it all to himself.

He’s upstairs, alone again, when he hears the cry through the open window. He’d know that voice anywhere. In an instant, he’s on his feet, grabbing his sword and tearing down the stairs.

Why hadn’t he said anything when Jaskier made eyes at the man across the tavern? The one that smelled _wrong_ to him, that made his guts churn? Maybe because he didn’t like the look of _anybody_ the bard took to bed, instead of him.

Geralt finds them in the dark of the alley beside the tavern. Anyone passing by would mistake them for groping lovers. But the witcher can see in the dark the glint of steel, scent the sour tang of fear.

But it’s not coming from Jaskier.

Metal clatters to the floor, a knife, and scattering coin, spilling from the bard’s purse. The would-be mugger flees, bumping the witcher’s shoulder in his haste without looking back.

Jaskier falls to his knees, fumbling through the mud, looking for something. His ring.

But it’s too late. He glances up, his scent going bitter in despair.

His horns are small, not the antlers of ancient and powerful fae, but round and young. They’re framed by his ears, even longer than elves, but soft, slightly furred at the edges. There’s freckles across his nose that weren’t there before, but pale rather than dark, like spots on a mushroom or the side of a fawn. A creature of the forest, pure chaos. Well, maybe not pure. He still looks and smells at least part human, mixed heritage.

And then he sees the sword in Geralt’s hand, and he flinches. He’s never done that before, drawing back from the witcher in fear.

“It’s me,” says Jaskier. “It’s no trick. This is… what I am.”

Geralt doesn’t have his sheath, so he simply lowers his sword to the ground, and then himself, kneeling before Jaskier. “I know.”

“You what?” Jaskier nearly squeaks. “What did I do, did my glamour drop? Did I accidentally ask for a name? I try, I really do—”

“I smelled you.”

“Oh, fuck. It’s not obvious, is it? Wait—I thought you were immune? That’s half of why I even follow—”

But he catches himself, biting his lip.

“Jaskier?”

“I mean, the ring suppresses it. But maybe not _entirely_.” Those too-bright eyes shine with tears. “What if—if no song I’ve ever sung—nobody I’ve ever kissed—if it’s just magic, and not—”

Geralt wants to stop those tears, somehow. Reach out his hands and wipe them away, take Jaskier into his arms, like it’s the dead of night in winter and his bard is shivering. But his hands remain at his sides, uncertain.

Jaskier sniffs. “Well, I suppose you really must be immune, because you don’t even like me.”

“That’s not true,” says Geralt.

That gets a laugh, at first. But then Jaskier looks up, and his lips part in surprise.

But this isn’t the place for this, kneeling in the mud of a seedy alley. It’s just begun to rain again.

So Geralt hauls them both up.

“My ring,” says Jaskier, slightly panicked.

Geralt finds it, by the smell of iron. He wants to hold it out, but instead, he places it in the bard’s palm.

He’s sorry to watch the horns and ears and freckles disappear, before they head back inside.

* * *

They’re quiet, on their way up the stairs. Even when they both strip from their muddied clothes down to their smallclothes, share water from a basin and wipe down with a washcloth.

“Do you mean it?” asks Jaskier. “You really like me?”

Geralt suppresses a sigh, putting down his washcloth. “When have I ever turned you away?”

Jaskier’s mouth falls open. “Is that all you can muster for affection? Letting me exist in your presence?”

Geralt nearly rolls his eyes. “You exist _loudly_.”

Now there’s hands on hips. “Well, excuse me for impeding on your precious silence–”

But then Jaskier goes quiet when Geralt draws closer. This time, he does reach out for him, like on a winter’s night.

“Do I not warm you when it’s cold?” asks Geralt. “Feed you when you’re hungry, carry you when you’ve had too much too drink?”

“Well,” says Jaskier. He gulps. “But you never _said_ anything.”

Geralt has already spoken too much. He can’t help but resort to a “Hmm.”

“Oh… but you _did_ say it,” says Jaskier, realization dawning. “Well then, ah—let me speak your language.”

His lips are warm. But he tastes human, nothing more.

Geralt hates to pull away. “Take it off.”

Jaskier’s eyes go wide. “Are you sure?”

“I’m immune. But to magic. Not you. I want to see you.”

Jaskier’s smile is nearly shy. He places the ring on the bedstand. Those pale freckles dot his chest and back, as well, though he already had plenty of downy hair, down his chest and up his stomach.

His scent didn’t change, aside from getting stronger. Not lilac and gooseberries. Just earth and clove, and dandelions.

 _Oh_. Because that’s what he likes best.

Geralt reaches up to pet those velvety ears. Jaskier nearly whimpers.

Then he kisses him again, and this time, it tastes of rain and clove. He whispers against his lips.

“It’s _real_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! <3


	4. shy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier has never seen Geralt drunk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another tumblr [prompt](https://lilacsdandelionsandonions.tumblr.com/post/611918278323994624/could-u-write-33-from-the-numbered-prompts)!

Jaskier goes a little heavy on the drink sometimes. It’s easy for him to get carried away during a performance, gulping ale to soothe his throat between songs.

It used to be because Geralt didn’t pay enough attention to him, hardly batted an eye if Jaskier flirted with someone else. And then he’d discovered that if he goes too far, till he can can’t walk straight, then Geralt will carry him to bed. So he might’ve gone a bit overboard getting shitfaced, just for an excuse to throw his arms around the witcher’s huge shoulders, feel those strong arms under his knees and over his back.

But now that they’re together, he takes it a little easier. And he knows that if he flirts with anyone else, Geralt might not bat an eye, but he drinks more, his fist clutching his tankard a little too tight.

And yet, he’s never seen Geralt drunk.

They’ve just had a difficult hunt, both of them coming away soaked in mud and splattered with blood, not to mention a little glassy-eyed because the monster had human once, she didn’t deserve what had happened, but she’d taken too many lives in revenge–

Even after a bath, Jaskier still feels dirty. They really need the drink tonight. By the time he’s done rousing the tavern with song, the alcohol has done its work, because he’s free falling, light and stumbly on his toes, quick to laugh, and eager to get his hands all over Geralt.

But Geralt doesn’t seem to like public affection. As hungry as he gets when they’re alone, in public, he pulls away from any pawing or attempted kisses. He’ll even shove the bard right off his lap.

Jaskier knows it’s probably because his witcher never lets his guard down. He doesn’t want to be distracted from any potential danger, lulled by alcohol or by Jaskier’s lips.

The stares probably don’t help. Geralt gets enough on his own, let alone with his odd choice of company.

But his witcher deserves to unwind. And besides, it would be lovely to see him loose, maybe even silly. His smiles are so rare.

“Geralt,” says Jaskier. As he drops beside him at the table, he lets his voice whine a bit, in that tone he knows the witcher can’t resist. “Why do you never get drunk with me?”

Geralt’s face is as still as ever, but his eyes are soft, slit pupils dilated. “It’s hard to get a witcher drunk.”

“No way,” says Jaskier. He’s slurring a bit, leaning in as far as Geralt will ever let him. “I think my witcher is just a lil’ shy. Don’t wanna let his guard down.”

Geralt’s smile is subtle. Anyone else might not even be able to see it. But Jaskier does. “I speak true.”

“Well then, prove it.”

“It would take a lot of coin.”

Jaskier drops his heavy coin purse on the table. “I’ll treat you, darling.”

It takes nearly twice as many drinks to get Geralt there. Ten drinks in, and he’s starting to smile, not so subtle. Twelve, and he’s grinning.

Fifteen, and he’s the one to pull Jaskier into his lap. Growling low and pleased, almost a purr, as he nuzzles into Jaskier’s neck, inhaling deep. His witcher is usually not so obvious about smelling him. It makes him blush, wondering if anyone is looking.

Jaskier lets out something between a yelp and a laugh at the sweet sting of fanged teeth. “Geralt!”

That voice rumbles deep, going right to his spine. “They can fuck right off. If I were a man, I could kiss my little bird in peace. Others have had you like this, why not me?”

Geralt pulls him into a messy kiss, tasting of ale. Then it turns into a bunch of kisses, small and all over, almost silly.

Jaskier flushes at the feeling of eyes on them, across the tavern. They must be quite a sight, a dark and previously brooding witcher with brightly-dressed, puffy-sleeved bard bent over him.

Geralt’s hands are on his ass and between his thighs, probably hidden by the table, but…

“We’d better call it, don’t you think?” asks Jaskier. “Let’s take this upstairs.”

Geralt reaches around Jaskier for his tankard, and drains it in one gulp. Then he picks Jaskier up, right in the middle of the tavern, and throws him over his shoulder.

They’re definitely getting a lot of stares. There can be no doubt what they’re off to do. Jaskier tries to assure everybody that he’s not being taken unwillingly with a shy smile and wave. One lady laughs and raises her cup to him.

He’ll have to get Geralt drunk more often.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! <3


End file.
